


silence, demon

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Barebacking, Blasphemy, Confessional Sex, Daddy Kink, Exhibitionism, Fluffy Ending, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Priest Yifan, Rimming, Smut, sacrilegious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13267059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: zitao confesses his nymphomaniac urges to the priest





	silence, demon

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my aff account

Zitao never once imagined himself in such an unholy predicament. 

 

Raised a devout Catholic, he was always a star student during Sunday school, always so patient and quiet during mass, quick to memorize hymns and always the first to jump at an opportunity to showcase his sweet, cherubic voice in the choir. His love for God never faltered, his love for the members of his clergy extended beyond the cathedral walls, for he was such a divine being—always so eager to lend a helping hand or befriend somebody new. Often times, the priests and nuns would tsk! tsk! tsk! their tongues against the roofs of their mouths, considering it a great loss to the church that Zitao, perhaps an angel walking amongst the blessed sands of the church and sitting modestly in the pews, was not pursuing a further purpose in the house of God. 

 

Of course, however, the clergy was never truly disappointed in Zitao, for God has a plan for all of His children, and they understood that Zitao was a blossoming butterfly who longed to spread his joy and gratitude with others, to be not condemned to the walls of the cathedral.

 

A messenger, they considered him.

 

A messenger, Zitao considered himself. 

 

Unfortunately, as Zitao stumbles to the confessional, tucked away in a darker, more private area of the church, illuminated only by candles and the fading light of the sunset through pretty, blue stained glass mosaics, Zitao feels shame in the nature of his message today. 

 

Breath short, as though he has just run several kilometers, dressed in the stifling fabrics of his usual fitted slacks and button-down shirt, today a dark blue, Zitao hurries to the confessional—a seat he has taken many-a-time, for what have been petty reasons in the past; confessing a pencil that he borrowed from a classmate but then broke before returning it, or accidentally drinking a beverage with alcohol. Oh—how demure in nature are such sins compared to the urges that burn through his veins as it were. 

 

Zitao fears he has been possessed by the most lucrative of demons. 

 

A month earlier, the church had welcomed Father Wu Yifan, a priest who had recently felt the call of God pull him to Qingdao for reasons he was excited to discover. Father Wu is one of the younger, and certainly more attractive members of the church. Upon Father Wu’s introduction, many women had tugged at their skirts and ducked their heads into the prayer books, cheeks burning as they recounted their sins and prepared for confessions later, and amongst the blushing women and fidgety teenage girls, Zitao found himself clutching his rosary and biting his lips. 

 

Father Wu has a commanding presence about him—domineering and silencing when he walks into a room, never a hair out of place or page unturned in his books, and when he stands for mass, Zitao clutches his fists at his sides and keeps his head bowed low, for Father Wu’s voice is so smooth and delectable, deep enough to resonant within the church walls and somewhere unknown within Zitao as well. Father Wu stirs emotions in Zitao that weigh his heart heavy as he struggles to explore them without violating all that has been engraved so deeply into his moral compass, though as of late, North and South have flipped and fluttered, leaving Zitao confused and questioning of what right and wrong truly are. 

 

His interactions with Father Wu have been somewhat sparse and Zitao isn’t sure if that is God’s blessing to him or a curse from below. They’ve crossed paths a handful of times, inevitable given Zitao’s dedication to the church, and for every minute together that they have had, Zitao tucks himself away in prayer for double the amount of time. 

 

But, oh, how he cannot help his urges! They are human, after all, and no matter how perfect the clergy, the attenders of mass, Zitao’s friends and family, believe him to be, Zitao is only human—and in his biological sexual prime, too! The only true sin he is committing is having such vulgar thoughts about another man, and one with over a decade of experience and wisdom hanging over Zitao’s tender twenty. 

 

The solution to all of Zitao’s problems in the past has been a simple confession, and yet, somehow, he feels as though confessing may only complicate things this time.

 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

 

It is a phrase that Zitao has repeated countless times, and yet the words feel virgin as they fall from his tongue this time around, and they fill the small, intimate space of the confession booth until they choke and suffocate Zitao, and already, he feels his heart pounding, his eyes watering. 

 

He isn’t dense—he knows that the very object of his sexual deviance is sitting on the other side of the privacy screen. Through the little grates, though the lighting is dim, Zitao can make out the distinct profile of Father Wu—the pretty slope of his nose and definition of his jaw and chin, the curve of his lips. If he is particularly interested, he can see the beginnings of Father Wu’s shoulders, his build strong and unflinching. 

 

Zitao can already feel his self-control as it wavers and his skin burns as his clothes brush along his body—every nerve in his body is electric, and all he needs is a conductor to bring him into the delicious burn of light. 

 

On the other side of the screen, Father Wu grows puzzled at the silence following the introduction. He knows that Zitao is on the other side, though confessions are supposed to be veiled with anonymity. Zitao’s voice is distinct, his personality kind, and Yifan has taking quite a liking to the young man in a short amount of time. It is only all-too-unfortunate that Zitao seems timid around him; Yifan has heard stories preceding Zitao’s reputation as the church’s very own angel, heard Zitao laugh, obnoxiously, but genuinely and sweetly, at Father Zhang’s insipid trickery, and Yifan considers it a shame that he and Zitao haven’t had time to bond and form a friendship, though Yifan knows that it is probably his own fault for the stagnation of his relationships within the church. 

 

He isn’t exactly approachable, he knows. He is quiet when not passing on the word of God, face hardened, and though at thirty-six, he is the youngest of the priests in the clergy, at least at this particular church, Yifan’s eyes hold misery, wisdom, and skepticism beyond their years. Rather than warmth, acceptance, and love, as typical of the aura of priests, others tend to find judgement, cruelty, cynicism in his eyes. 

 

Perhaps that is because Yifan is a saved soul—or so everyone tells him, having devoted his life to Catholicism and the church following a rocky childhood and teenage years. He has seen the world beyond the rose bushes growing in the church courtyard, understands more and questions more than he should. 

 

But still, he has a job to do, and through his own perception, senses something deeply disturbed within the wintery-white soul that sits across from him. 

 

“Speak, child,” Yifan’s voice is his always consistent, smooth timbre. “There is security within these walls.” On the other side of the partition, Yifan hears minimal shuffling, and perhaps the quietest, most tempting of sounds he has ever heard in his entire life. 

 

If his ears are not deceiving him, he swears Zitao has just whimpered, and if Yifan were born yesterday, he would’ve thought Zitao was in pain, and while Zitao certainly is suffering, it is not of typical pain. 

 

Zitao presses his hands between his thighs and squeezes his legs together tightly, sweat beading along his brow, and bows his head, eyes closed tightly as he recites his prayers, begs for forgiveness—or perhaps relief. He isn’t quite sure anymore, his mind is too foggy. 

 

He swallows thickly, wiggling on the shallow self of a seat within the booth, and feels the urge to cry become harder to repress as he realizes that somehow, he has gotten hard. 

 

Homosexuality is a sin. Homosexuality is a sin. You will condemn yourself to Hell. Homosexuality is a sin—a voice whispers in the back of his mind, but somehow, Zitao thinks it to be not his own. A phantom of fear and punishment, the schema of his childhood and the unspoken rules and prejudices that were drilled into him from birth—prejudices that he always questioned, hatred that never formed in his heart. 

 

Zitao leans his head against the cool wood panelling just beside the privacy screen, his breathing heavy, and his hands come from between his thighs to instead idly and mindlessly unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt, the little ivory pins slippery between his clammy fingers. 

 

He still hasn’t said a word, however, though he grows more breathless and anxious—for what, Zitao doesn’t exactly know. 

 

But oh—he does. He knows exactly what he wants, knows exactly who he wants, but he’s buckling under the weight of his sins and the weight of his perfection. 

 

Poor Zitao—he has set himself up for failure. 

 

Yifan clears his throat on the other side of the caged screen, resisting the urge to peer in and check on the boy. Zitao is sixteen years his junior—an entire lifetime it seems, but Zitao is in the beginnings of adulthood—and yet Yifan feels burdened with the desire to protect him, despite knowing so little about him. 

 

“What burdens you to silence, my child?” Yifan tries, catching the beginnings of Zitao’s name in his throat. Anonymity seems quite pointless when Zitao is so close to the clergy, but when Yifan so dangerously teeters the edge of believer and non-believer, every rule must be followed strictly. 

 

Again, Father Wu’s voice washes over Zitao like a hex, and he feels he really has been cursed, and thinks that this may have been a bad idea—this was most definitely a bad idea—and he leans more heavily against the wall that divides them, as though he can feign closeness to Father Wu through the partition. 

 

Quietly and shamefully, Zitao confesses. 

 

“Im-impure thoughts, Father.” His voice is whispery and airy, breathless as though he has already satiated the temptation that brings him to the confession booth. Mindlessly, one of Zitao’s hands falls to his pants once more, and he rests his hand over the throbbing evidence of his arousal—oh God forgive the sin he is committing right now—touching himself in the house of God; father please forgive me.

 

Zitao palms furiously his erection through his pants, and without realizing it, he lets out soft, erotic gasps and cries as the electricity only builds and builds, and his brows bow together as though he might cry as his hips grind against his hand, his desperation for friction and release of any kind overcoming his desperation for forgiveness. 

 

“Father, please,” Zitao whines, eyes fluttering shut. He isn’t asking for forgiveness, but rather, begging the Father Wu of his fantasies to touch him, begging the Father Wu of his dreams to fuck him, to break him and ruin him for the remainder of his life, for lust cannot truly be a sin if it feels so good to indulge in it. But; Zitao is also begging the Father Wu who sits beside him, separated by only a few inches of wood, to indulge him. 

 

Impure thoughts are a common confession, especially from Zitao’s age group, but the sinful cries from Zitao’s lips make Yifan’s breath hitch high in his throat—there is no mistaking the cries of an angel, and heat floods directly to his crotch, and Yifan closes his eyes tightly, clutches his rosary, and prays for retribution from this temptation; prays his own twisted arousal away. Yifan knows exactly what Zitao is doing on the other side of that wall.

 

Though entirely inappropriate, the unsaved sinner wretches from deep within Yifan, and he finds himself asking, “And what is the nature of these thoughts, child?” Again, endearments flood his mind and he stops my love from leaving his tongue. He barely knows Zitao; as far as Yifan has observed, Zitao has been afraid of him this entire time, and yet he feels a stronger connection to the precious babe than to God Himself. 

 

Zitao’s mind goes blank, save for a precocious chant of oh no, oh no, oh no, and the crushing pain of his moral integrity as it crumbles to the ground like pillars built upon sand. 

 

Still palming himself, Zitao inches closer to the screen, his free hand tucking beneath the barely-open folds of his shirt, just into the small area of skin exposed from his earlier unbuttoning. Zitao’s fingers, delicate and pretty, cross the expanse of his chest, and find purchase at one of his nipples, and he pinches and teases the bud to hardness, head lolling back against the confessional wall with a soft thud! and a shuddering, trembling exhale of pleasure. 

 

Yifan drops his rosary in favor of pressing a hand to his cock, hard and beginning to leak, in his pants. There’s something especially dark and pleasing about becoming aroused while dressed in his stifling clerical clothing. 

 

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us echoes loudly in Zitao’s mind; a quote from John 1:9 that he has recited back to many members of the church that feel hesitant to confess in the confessional, and somehow, he twists it to fit his situation and feels only a fraction less condemned. 

 

Zitao bites his lip and swallows down a filthy moan—he has taken an informal vow of abstinence, hardly even allowing himself to masturbate, so his body is hypersensitive to every touch, especially in such a high state of arousal. Father Wu is sitting inches away from him, if only they could do away with the partition between them, do away with the metaphysical and stigmas that lead to such shame for such natural occurrences of human lust. 

 

“The clergy,” Zitao admits, and he sinks further into himself, swallowed completely by feelings he has forbidden himself from exploring, just as he has forbidden his hands from exploring his body, but his mind is too hazy, and he no longer cares for the principles he has set for himself, unsure if they were even his principles in the first place. 

 

His eyes flutter shut once more, and he finds himself lost in the world of his deepest desires, lost in the phantom sensation of Father Wu’s touch. 

 

His fingers twist and pinch almost roughly at his nipple, and he grinds harder against his palm, a gentle oh… escaping his lips. 

 

“I’ve been thinking,” Zitao’s voice is whiny, needy, his eyes, were they open, would glitter with unshed tears—oh, he’s so desperate. 

 

On the other side of the privacy screen, Yifan has conjured all of the willpower in the world to keep from peeking into the caged screen, and witnessing what sweet, angelic, model student Zitao, is doing to himself on the other side of the wall. This is the worst of tortures; being so close, yet worlds apart, to such a delicious temptation. 

 

Zitao stutters and hiccups, and Yifan’s head falls back against the confessional wall, similar to the way Zitao’s had earlier, only without the force, and gives his erection a squeeze, much more adept at containing his sounds than Zitao seems to be. 

 

“About what?” Yifan asks, purely out of curiosity now. Zitao has been having impure thoughts about the clergy? Selfishly and conceitedly, Yifan is almost certain he is the object of Zitao’s impure thoughts, for the other priests are too Holy or simply too old, and the nuns are all like literal sisters to Zitao. The very thought of Zitao having even the least sinful of fantasies about Yifan makes Yifan’s cock rock hard and wet at the tip. 

 

Zitao’s body throbs, his lips feel feverish, and his tongue darts out to lick them wet as his cheeks flush a deep red. He should be embarrassed, and he is but not so much so that it defers him. In fact, the heat in his cheeks only turns him on further, and with a whiny sigh, Zitao divulges. 

 

The hand palming his erection dares to slip beneath the waistband of his slacks and while it’s a bit tight and his movement is limited, thanks to his belt, the real sensation of his hand as it encircles his hard, hot cock, outweighs the limit in dexterity. 

 

He can’t help it this time—his mouth drops open, a keen leaving his lips without abandon, and yet, even his moans are quiet and sweet, just as his voice naturally is, and on the other side of the partition, Yifan inhales sharply, the mewl of a sound going straight to his dick. 

 

“I’ve been having inappropriate thoughts about—oh…” Zitao interrupts himself with a moan, stroking himself minimally, but just enough to bring a teasing jolt up his spine, and he moves the hand on his chest to his other nipple, already hard, and flicks and circles the little bud, throwing his head back again. 

 

God, he’s so sensitive. Father Wu is right there, Father Wu can probably see him behaving like a filthy little whore inside of the confessional—Father Wu can see a side of Zitao that Zitao hasn’t even explored himself, and it’s so erotic and arousing and Zitao’s cock leaks precum, wetting the front of his underwear, and his toes curl in his socks and shoes. 

 

Zitao presses his forehead against the side of the wall that Father Wu sits opposite, thighs clenching. 

 

“I-I’ve been thinking about one of the priests, Father.” You, Zitao longs to say, but his thoughts aren’t coherent enough to string together such reasoning. “I think about him so much,” Zitao whines, opening his eyes just enough to peek through the screen, and though partially concealed, just the sight of Father Wu makes Zitao moan. 

 

Zitao squeezes his cock, bucking his hips into the sensation. “Mmm-oh—I want him to t-touch me.” He runs his hand along his chest, his muscles tensing up, the body of a god with the virgin mind of an angel. “I think about him kissing me, I think about his big, fat cock choking me, splitting me open,” Zitao’s voice is getting higher, more airy, and he moans again, stroking his cock with short, quick jerks of his hand. His brows bow together and he exhales, growing unbearably hot and unbearably lonely in his half of the confession booth. “Dominating me.” 

 

“I-” Zitao’s eyes shut tightly, his fingers tremble and pinch his nipple until it is swollen and red and overly sensitive, enough to make him moan with just a touch. “I want him to ruin me, Father.”

 

Yifan’s heart is throbbing, the pure exhilaration of such dirty words being spoken in such a holy space only serves to intensify his state of arousal, and he finds himself rocking his hips slowly against his hand, imagining he’s rocking into the beautiful, writhing body of the very man who sits across from him. 

 

“Such vulgarities spoken in the house of God,” Yifan says, chastising Zitao in a manner which holds no merit—on the other end of the screen, he hears Zitao whine at his words and whisper, forgive me, and Yifan bites back a groan and thrusts particularly hard against his hand. 

 

“I can’t help it,” Zitao whines, sounding near tears, and fed up with the lack of stimulation, he frees both of his hands just long enough to unfasten his belt and unbutton his pants, shamelessly taking a hold of his cock, hard and red at the tip, glistening with precum, and begins stroking himself furiously, though deep inside, he knows that this is not the stimulation he truly wants. 

 

He thrusts into his hand and tries to muffle his sounds by clasping a hand over his mouth, imagining Father Wu’s large, warm hands all over his body, stroking his cock, teasing his nipples, fingering him open until he’s a babbling, vulgar mess; broken, only to be put back together by Father himself. 

 

“I want him to fuck me.” Here comes the breaking of Zitao’s morals, impulse and skepticism breaking him completely, and he pushes closer to the screen, his free hand grasping at the grates in the divider, desperate. His eyes are wet with tears and his voice reflects that, sounding so broken and already so thoroughly-sodomized. 

 

“It hurts, Father—” 

 

Yifan cannot, even if he tried, bring himself to look anywhere but at Zitao, peering at him through the privacy screen, his mouth dry as he sees, blurrily, perhaps the most erotic sight he has ever, and will ever see in his lifetime. 

 

Immediately, he knows that God has sent him the ultimate test, and he is absolutely going to fail. 

 

“P-please fuck me,” Zitao begs incoherently, furiously jerking himself with no end in sight—it’s unbearable, it hurts so badly, he needs somebody more experienced than he, he needs somebody to take care of him, to help the ache in his loins. 

 

“Ruin me, Father Wu.” 

 

Game over.

 

Yifan obeys those four words like a command from the Lord Himself, and hastily pushes from his side of the confessional and stumbles like a drunken man into Zitao’s side, wholly unprepared for what he sees when he throws the door open, panting as though Zitao is his promised oasis. 

 

Yifan had limited vision of Zitao through the partition, the grates in the screen concealed all but Zitao’s face, and while that alone was awe-inducing, Yifan finds himself completely struck by how debauched the younger looks, huddled so close to the partition (something in Yifan churns, knowing how desperate Zitao was for him, knowing that this entire time, Zitao has been fantasizing about him—how hedonistic), sweat bowing his brow. 

 

Zitao is unflinching, most definitely relieved, to see Father Wu, and is unmoving from where he sits, still feverishly touching himself, his eyes wet with tears, lower lip sucked between his teeth—it is shameful, it should be shameful for Zitao to be exposing himself like this in front of his elder, one hand stroking his cock, fingers fluttering with inexperience atop the wet, red head, his other hand beneath his shirt, teasing his nipples. It should embarrass him beyond belief, but Zitao only closes his eyes upon seeing Father Wu, his hand working quicker, sloppier on his cock, his hips rolling into the movements, and whines. 

 

“Father…” 

 

There is no sweeter sound that could possibly go with a sweeter sight, and Yifan wonders what he has done to have such a blessing bestowed upon him; the saccharine Zitao, his purity spilling from his lips, begging for care—Zitao needs Yifan, and not in the way the promiscuous women who pull their mini-dresses below their knees when crawling home from Saturday night affairs into Sunday mass need him. Zitao needs guidance, needs care in his inexperience, and he will find no gentler, nor rougher a contradictory lover than Yifan. 

 

Yifan’s mouth waters, and though he could stand and stare, he would much rather drink wine from the virtuous well, and admire it through taste and contact. 

 

The confessional space is somewhat cramped with two people pressed into the same side of the booth, yet somehow, it doesn’t feel close enough, and Yifan welcomes himself into his personal sanctuary of Zitao, closing the door to the booth behind him, and suddenly, he feels like he is in a different world, where the judgement and morals are different, and the rules of life and love are as simple as existing and wanting to exist in harmony. 

 

“Father,” Zitao whispers again, sitting up a little straighter, and every time the title falls from Zitao’s lips, Yifan’s cock throbs, his heart swells, and he grins and takes to Zitao quickly, sympathy in his smile as he leans between Zitao’s spread legs, barely able to stand upright in the booth, and brings a hand far gentler than the touches he is used to giving, to Zitao’s chin. 

 

“Look at me, love,” Yifan commands, the endearment feeling so wonderfully natural as it falls from his lips, and Zitao fidgets, wiggling beneath the dominance that Yifan emits, and opens his tearful, wet eyes. 

 

God, how beautiful is such a gaze! Yifan wants to turn Zitao away from the clergy completely, and hopes such a stare is reserved for him, and him only. The sadist repressed in Yifan positively glows at the pain in Zitao’s eyes, the pain from repressed urges and perhaps something more that Zitao doesn’t quite understand yet, and Yifan cannot wait to do away with such pain. His brows bow affectionately as he studies the allure of Zitao’s face. 

 

“So pretty,” Yifan cooes, and Zitao’s cheeks flush the same scarlett of adultery, and he blinks back his tears, bringing the hand on his chest up to grasp desperately at Yifan’s shirt, his eyes flickering down to the little peeping of white at the base of his shirt—the tabbed collar reminding Zitao that this is sacrilege—he has guaranteed himself a ticket across the river styx, and he grows even more teary at the thought. 

 

Yifan, noticing the younger’s hesitation, trips along the line of belief that he has so cautiously teetered for years, and leans close, his breath fanning warmly across the contours of Zitao’s cheeks, and kisses away tears as they fall from his eyes. 

 

“Don’t cry, angel,” He hushes, one of his hands covering the fingers that clutch his shirt. Zitao’s hands are so soft and well-taken care of, every part of Zitao’s body is to be worshipped, and Yifan, God willing, cannot wait to pray. 

 

He kisses the tip of Zitao’s nose when he is certain the tears have subsided, and allows his lips to hover over Zitao’s their breath mingling, and Yifan’s eyes grow half-lidded as his lungs fill with Zitao, and all he can think is Zitao, Zitao, Zitao, and God brought me to you. 

 

“If you want me to leave, I’ll leave,” Yifan gives Zitao’s hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbing soothing circles along the back of Zitao’s palm. “I will leave right now and never breathe a word of what has happened so long as I live.”

 

Their lips are so close that Zitao can taste every word Yifan speaks, can taste the sincerity, and Zitao wonders, if he were to speak, would the priest taste the despondency in Zitao’s words as he begged Yifan not to go? 

 

“But,” Yifan continues, his eyes nearly shut as he stares at the curves of Zitao’s lips, the petite cupid’s bow and lower lip, swollen from all of Zitao’s earlier biting. Still holding Zitao’s hand, Yifan’s other hand dares to slip to less-innocent places, and he watches with mild amusement as Zitao’s eyes grow wide like saucers, and he hiccups in surprise, when Yifan lightly pushes the younger’s hand away from his cock, and replaces it with Yifan’s own—the experience etched so deeply into Yifan’s hands immediately sending jolts up the babe’s spine, and if Zitao had the wings of an angel, Yifan is certain they would be fluttering. 

 

“Ah!” Zitao gasps in surprise, and his thighs tense excitedly as Yifan begins stroking him, firmly, strongly, already bringing an intensity to Zitao’s belly that he failed to bring himself. “Oh—oh…” Zitao melts like butter at Yifan’s touch, and the priest offers a crooked simper, looking so attractive, so handsome, that Zitao cannot bear to look at him, but cannot bear to look away either. 

 

“If you want me to stay,” Yifan runs his thumb across the top of Zitao’s erection, spreading the wetness that has gathered at the tip and made him extra sensitive, the younger’s body arching desperately at the slightest touch, Zitao’s mouth hanging wide open—which really isn’t that wide at all, given how small Zitao’s mouth is (Yifan would love to see it stretched wide, full of his cock), his cute little tongue peeking out—and Yifan can’t help himself, not with the temptation right before him. 

 

Yifan bridges the minuscule gap that kept their lips apart, using Zitao’s moaning, pleased out gasp as an advantage to slip his tongue into Zitao’s mouth, and Zitao let's out the most endearing sound of surprise in the back of his throat, making Yifan smile as he licks his way through Zitao’s mouth, savoring the taste upon his tongue. 

 

The priest keeps his rhythmic tugging on Zitao’s cock, pace unwavering even as he sucks Zitao’s swollen lower lip between his teeth, and Zitao bucks into Yifan’s hand and clings to his shirt with fervor, fingers curling into the black fabric. 

 

Yifan draws away from the kiss, a thin, spidery web of saliva still bridging the gap, and Yifan takes the liberty of licking it away, graciously running his tongue over Zitao’s red, parted lips as he does so. 

 

Before he speaks again, Yifan wants to be sure he has Zitao’s attention, and while there is little doubt that he does, for good measure, Yifan ceases stroking Zitao’s cock, and presses his thumb into the slit, and Zitao feels the heaviest of pleasure surprise him, and, his hands still stuck to Yifan, pulls the priest closer with a soft cry of, “Father!” that has Yifan’s stomach in complete knots. 

 

“If you want me to stay,” Yifan repeats, voice a sin itself. He presses his hips forward, guiding Zitao’s sensitive member to the clear bulge in his trousers, and grinds his hips down, Zitao mewling with the friction, eyes fluttering shut again. Yifan grins, sweet and of growing adoration for the adorable love beneath him—the expression so different from the nature of his own impure thoughts.

 

Yifan runs his tongue along the shell of Zitao’s ear, and exhales hotly on the cooking trail of saliva. “I’ll devour you.” He growls, and Zitao’s legs twitch and flit at the depth in Yifan’s voice—at all of his fantasies coming true in this very moment, and he grinds up against Yifan’s bulging pants.

 

Yifan begins to pull away from Zitao, intending to give the boy a moment of contemplation, but Zitao seems to have made up his mind, and to Yifan’s utmost surprise, throws his arms around the priest’s neck, eyes watery still, and shakes his head back and forth rapidly, keeping Yifan close. 

 

“Don’t go,” Zitao begs breathlessly. Yifan is finally beginning to understand why the other priests insist that Zitao’s voice is a gift from God, for never before has Yifan heard such a soft, sweet timbre. Zitao’s voice is deep—not nearly as deep as Yifan’s own—but incredibly gentle and musical in tone. Yifan longs to make Zitao cry out, make him sing to the heavens of their passion that cannot possibly be sin. 

 

Yifan peers into Zitao’s eyes, his gaze making Zitao bashful and babble, but babble he does to get Father Wu to stay. 

 

“Devour me,” Zitao pulls Yifan closer, lifting his hips to grind against Yifan’s erection, and he moans at the phantom touch; Yifan feels so big, so big and fat and domineering and, oh, he’s going to cry—he wants it so badly, wants Yifan so, so badly. 

 

Zitao presses his forehead to Yifan’s, blinking away tears that blur his vision, and tugs fruitlessly at Yifan’s uniform, feeling the strength beneath the fabric. It is no secret to the members of the church that Father Wu is well built, his shoulders broad, legs strong, his thighs often flexing against the strain of his seams when he rises for prayer, but being so close, feeling the heat that Father Wu’s body emits, feeling the power in his body, makes Zitao tremble. 

 

“Help me,” Zitao whimpers, and Yifan’s resolve begins to crumble though he makes no moves, not yet. 

 

“Take me, take me, take me, takemetakemefatherplease.” 

 

Yifan’s heart breaks at the distress in Zitao’s voice and the tears collecting along his lower lashline, and the priest, feeling all of his connections with God beginning to sever, replaced instead with connections with Zitao, presses a finger to Zitao’s pouty little lips, hushing him gingerly. 

 

“Shhhh, Love,” Yifan traces the bow of Zitao’s lips, the younger’s little pink tongue peeking from between the flesh to draw along Yifan’s finger, lapping at the priest’s skin like a kitten to milk, and Yifan closes his eyes for a moment, pressing the tip of his finger between Zitao’s lips, and the angel responds with fervor, moaning softly and sucking Yifan’s finger into his warm, wet mouth. 

 

Yifan is so hard it hurts, and gone are his vows of celibacy and his dedication to the church—he will burn for eternity just to live a single moment. He drags his finger from Zitao’s mouth, running it over the boy’s pretty lower lip, down his chin, along the clammy flesh of his neck, and lower still, past Zitao’s collar bones—oh, how pretty is this part of his body, all healthy olive skin, begging for bruises and bites. 

 

Lips trembling, Yifan exhales. “Ethereal.” He whispers, Zitao’s eyes closing at the praise, his head falling back against the booth, melting into Father Wu’s touch, and he whispers his superior’s name with the same fervor and passion which he recites his prayers. 

 

“You’re a treasure.” Yifan says, tumbling ceaselessly along where his mind and his heart diverge, and his tongue swipes across his lower lip, before he bows his head to the expanse of Zitao’s neck, pressing his lips to the younger’s skin, relishing in the whine and roll of Zitao’s hips that comes with the affection, and Yifan smiles against the responsiveness—how eager, how sweet. How lucky is he to be blessed with such a being to cherish and love. 

 

Yifan bites softly along Zitao’s jugular, his tongue warm and wet as it traces patterns into Zitao’s neck that make his cock leak and his voice high. 

 

“You’ve been thinking about this?” Yifan’s voice is deep—so deep and rough and it grates against something in Zitao’s belly as a shame that isn’t really a shame—not quite. The priest drags his hands, the hands that have baptized children and crossed ashes along the foreheads of the masses, along Zitao’s jaw, thumbs crossing Zitao’s lips, down his neck, until his fingers snag on the crucifix pendant that Zitao wears, the cross resting at the base of Zitao’s throat, and Yifan pauses when he gets to this little gem. 

 

He pinches the silver cross between his fingers, tugging it lightly, and Zitao’s breath hitches. 

 

“Father…” He whines, and Yifan shivers—nobody will ever call him Father Wu again without bringing back the sinful delights of Zitao’s whispery, high-pitched gasps. 

 

Yifan toys with the pendant in one hand, and with his other hand, unbuttons the rest of Zitao’s shirt, exposing the pretty body hidden beneath the clothes. 

 

“Tell me,” Yifan demands, grinning as he peers into Zitao’s eyes, transformed completely into the person he was before finding the church, and yet, Zitao finds only more arousal, finds it even more painful to be so close, yet so far away from Yifan. 

 

Zitao squirms, face bruising with chagrin, and shyly shakes his head, averting Yifan’s eyes. His elder’s hands are velvetine along his skin—aged into an even sweeter softness, drawing circles along Zitao’s neck and chest, fingers teasing atop those hard, now a bit red from earlier teasing, dark nipples, and God Forgive, Zitao has always been sensitive; empathetic, easily moved to tears during particularly difficult prayers, his joy contagious, and Yifan’s bruising, overwhelming presence is easily more beautiful than even the most pleasant of songs.

 

Yifan marvels at the way Zitao’s body arches and contracts as his fingers tease across Zitao’s dusky, perked nipples, and he wonders if Zitao will be equally as responsive when Yifan goes balls deep. 

 

Yifan bows his head, almost like he is praying, and replaces his one of his twisting, pinching fingers with his lips, kissing and sucking the sensitive bud and relishing in the soft, reserved cries that Zitao is emitting through swollen, bitten lips. As Yifan passes between each nipple, kissing circles down Zitao’s chest, his tongue lavishing wet paths along uncharted parts of Zitao’s body, the priest drags his hands down to Zitao’s thighs, feeling the taut, thick muscles beneath his slacks, and pushes Zitao’s legs open a little wider, the boy’s knee hitting the partition wall of the booth. 

 

The Priest strokes Zitao’s aching cock with earnest, watching through hooded, red-tinged vision as the little nymph squirms and bucks into the touch, his hands flailing, pinching his nipples and tugging at his hair, and Yifan grins, squeezing the base of Zitao’s cock rather tightly—tight enough to make Zitao hiss in soft pain, and yet, surprised by his own masochism, the sharp exhale turns into a moan. 

 

Yifan runs his tongue across his teeth, licks his lips, and falls to his knees before the boy. 

 

“Confess to me.” He demands, voice heavy and authoritative, and Zitao wiggles, heat in his dick at the dominance in Yifan’s voice. How badly he wishes to be dominated, taken, wrecked by merciful Father Wu.

 

Tugging at Zitao’s pants, fingers circling around the belt loops, Yifan drags the dark slacks down Zitao’s thighs, taking the boy’s underwear, tightly-fitted briefs, with the movement, and oh—what is this? Zitao, such a good church boy, with his sweet voice and shy disposition, locked away in the hidden body of an incubus. The strength, thickness in those thighs! Yifan can see every muscle flexing in them, toned and defined, and, compared to the rest of Zitao’s lithe little body, wonderfully thick. God, Yifan would be happy drenching Zitao’s thighs in oil, pressing them together, and fucking into them like he is planning on doing to Zitao’s untouched little hole.

 

Yifan palms each of Zitao’s thighs, his hands large, and yet he cannot go all the way around them—not that he would want to. Yifan’s nails dig little crescents into the underside of Zitao’s thighs, and Zitao tenses up and squeezes them together. 

 

“Father,” His voice trembles. 

 

“Confess.” Yifan growls again, grasping tighter to Zitao’s legs. “You’re being awfully disobedient, Zitao. Do you even want me at all?” He kneads roughly Zitao’s thighs, lowering his head and pressing the gentlest of kisses between them, close to Zitao’s cock. 

 

Zitao shakes his head, toes curling, and grasps at Yifan’s hands. “No, Father,” he begs, already fraying at the seams. “I want you,” he insists, stomping his feet adorably. “I'm good, I’ll be good.” 

 

Yifan glances up at him, grinning against the skin of Zitao’s inner thigh, looking every bit as tempting and evil as the very serpent that corrupted Eve. “Yeah?” He taunts, voice the friction that Zitao yearns for. 

 

Zitao’s hands suddenly fly to the sides of the booth, nails raking against the smooth wood, failing to find purchase. “Father!” He yelps out, hips bucking upward reflexively, tears filling his eyes as he glances down at Yifan.

 

Yifan bit him. Sank his teeth right into Zitao’s inner thigh, where he is already so sensitive to touch, now branding the mark of a deviant priest. And, instead of being mortified by the dark act of possession, Zitao only wants Yifan to bite him again, hurt him again. God, what is wrong with them? 

 

He feels Yifan’s tongue, warm and soothing and teasing against the area he just bit, and Zitao would try to close his legs, and he does, but Yifan is having none of it, and holds Zitao open just wide enough for his head to fit between Zitao’s thighs, and the outright vulgarity of it all makes Zitao sputter and his brain short circuit, and Yifan isn’t even inside of him yet (not physically, maybe, but he has certainly invaded Zitao’s mind). 

 

The Priest motions for Zitao to lift his hips a little, and, obedient, just as he had promised to be, Zitao complies. The way they are positioned—Zitao now hovering over the shelf of a seat in the booth, hands pressed against the walls to keep himself up on wobbly legs, Yifan on his knees before him, doesn’t allow them much room for anything—at least, Zitao thinks so.

 

Fortunately, Yifan is far more experienced than he, and Zitao absolutely squeals when, even in such a strange position, Yifan grabs one of Zitao’s supple ass cheeks in one hand, spreading him open, and with the other, traces Zitao’s hot, quivering rim. 

 

“Oh—Father Wu…” Zitao whines. Nobody has ever touched him here, he is virgin in every sense of the word, young, inexperienced, but so, so desperate for corruption. Desperate to feel what he has known, deep inside, is the only thing he really wants. 

 

“Do you think about me touching you here?” Yifan asks, pressing his finger into the tight entrance. It’s dry, and it burns, Zitao only allowing Yifan in to the first knuckle. Yifan’s mouth waters, and vaguely he notes that, without some kind of lubricant, there’s no way in Hell he’ll be getting into Zitao without completely destroying him. 

 

Legs trembling, sweat beading above his brow, Zitao nods fanatically. “Y-yes.” He confesses, eyes squeezed shut. He can’t look at Yifan—not right now. He’s afraid, in his inexperience, he’ll make a mess of himself just by making eye contact with the devastatingly handsome Priest. 

 

So cute, Yifan thinks, eyes unable to draw away from Zitao’s face. He can’t wait to see what expressions Zitao makes once Yifan sheaths himself inside. 

 

Yifan pushes from his knees and stands before Zitao, and Zitao sags heavily against the wall, making Yifan seem so much taller and bigger. 

 

“Look at me.” 

 

Zitao obeys and opens his wet eyes, staring up at the object of his desires, the object of his crush. The very reason why he is in this predicament. “Father,” Zitao swallows, and Yifan smiles, so sweet and kind and trustworthy, a hard turn from the anomaly in his smile earlier, and yet completely genuine. 

 

Two of Yifan’s fingers find themselves tracing Zitao’s lips. May God bless him one day to have Zitao’s pretty mouth choking down his meat, but good things come to those who wait, and, with an expression almost sympathetic, Yifan pushes his fingers into Zitao’s mouth, cooing softly. 

 

Zitao’s mouth is small, tight, hot, and wet, and his tongue flutters sloppily over the digits, tasting Yifan, Yifan, Yifan, and he thinks where Yifan is going to put these fingers after Zitao wets them, and his legs nearly give out.

 

Innocent, yes, but he isn’t clueless. 

 

“You’re so shy.” Yifan marvels as though he has the rarest creature at his fingertips, undoubtedly, he thinks he does. This blushing boy is the same one who was, not even ten minutes earlier, masturbating to the thought of Yifan, whining vulgarities, and moaning like a whore? So cute. 

 

Yifan pushes his fingers further back into Zitao’s mouth, testing the younger’s limits. He definitely doesn’t expect Zitao to know how to suppress his gag reflex, and Yifan’s eyes widen in stupor when, in fact, Zitao seems to have no gag reflex at all, Yifan’s fingers pressing into his throat, and Zitao even drops his mouth open with a soft ah!, staring at Yifan with the innocent, sweet eyes of a doe. 

 

“Fuck.” The priest curses, the word sounding so beautiful from such a deep, piercing voice, and Zitao whines, having never heard Father Wu utter even an oh my gosh until now. 

 

“Turn around.” Yifan orders, pulling his wet fingers from Zitao’s drooling mouth. Zitao stares at him in a bit of a daze and doesn’t comply automatically; Yifan recognizes that look, and recognizes the responsibility that lands upon his shoulders with it, feels fulfilled and whole in a way that he hasn’t in a very, very long time. 

 

Grabbing Zitao by the shoulders, he spins the stumbling boy around until Zitao’s face is pressed against the partition screen, his shirt completely unbuttoned, falling off of one shoulder and exposing a kissable patch of skin there, and his fingers grasp at the wall, tangling beside his cheek in the grates of the screen. 

 

The apparent lack of lubrication is worrying to Yifan—he doesn’t want to hurt Zitao, but he fears he’s in too deep to back away now, unless Zitao says otherwise—so he settles for not an ideal, but a substitute at the very least. 

 

For the second time, Yifan drops to his knees before Zitao—the irony painfully present and somewhat satisfying—and caresses Zitao’s ass, his hands large enough to cover each cheek, and Zitao stomps his feet a little again and murmurs, “Father Wu,” and Yifan smiles. He really is too cute for his own good.

 

“Did you think about this, too?” He asks, loving the torture as much as he’ll love carrying Zitao to release. 

 

Cheek pressed against the cool grate of the partition, Zitao nods, words eluding him. The position is embarrassing, but he has thought about this, so many times. “Uh-huh,” Zitao exhales, eyes fluttering shut when Yifan nudges his legs open wider, spreading him. 

 

“So naughty.” Yifan testily draws a hand back and spanks Zitao lightly, not at all surprised when Zitao hiccups and sags against the wall. “Tell me.” Yifan demands, always having been an auditory lover, and there is nothing more erotic than Zitao’s perfect, whispery voice speaking in sins other than Zitao himself. 

 

“I want you to touch me,” Zitao confesses, cheeks burning. “I w- I want your mouth on me, Father——ooh!” Zitao sings, going up on his tippy toes. In the middle of his confession, Yifan had had enough, said the quickest prayer, and buried his face between Zitao’s ass cheeks, mouth attacking Zitao’s perfect, untouched hole as though it is going to be his last meal. 

 

Yifan pulls Zitao’s ass open wide, tongue sloppily, messily tracing Zitao’s rim, and Zitao has never felt such a dark, beautiful pleasure, and with one hand still holding tight to the screen, he feverishly touches himself, stroking his cock without much rhyme or reason, mind static as he rocks back into Yifan’s face, back arching beautifully. 

 

Noticing Zitao working on himself out of the corner of his eye, Yifan smiles and draws away, Zitao moaning at the loss of sensation. 

 

“Nonono,” he whimpers, and Yifan clicks his tongue and swats Zitao’s hand away from his cock. 

 

“Don’t you want me to do that?” Yifan asks, and Zitao stiffens and nods, albeit bashfully, and Yifan thinks Zitao can’t get any cuter. 

 

“Spread yourself open for me, love,” Yifan requests gently, wanting to do other things with his hands, delicious as it is to have Zitao’s ass at his fingertips. 

 

“Okay…” Zitao whispers softly, bringing his hands behind to do just as Yifan wants, and it is such a pretty picture. Zitao already looks so debauched, so willing and sweet and Yifan just wants to fuck him open against the confessional wall, damning God for trying to condemn such a honeyed love. 

 

Yifan palms his own, achingly, unbearably hard cock with one hand, and kisses the base of Zitao’s spine, the younger shivering. 

 

“You’re an angel, Zitao,” Yifan murmurs, truth like syrup, drenching his words in candy. Zitao wiggles a bit, his toes curling. 

 

“You’re a demon.” He gasps out just as Yifan presses his face between Zitao’s ass once more, pressing his tongue flat against Zitao’s hole, licking circles along the skin, relishing in the taste and the filthy moans that Zitao keeps biting back against Yifan’s ministrations. 

 

He exhales hotly against Zitao’s perineum, keeping everything nice and wet, and Zitao’s legs nearly give out. 

 

“Father!”

 

“Be good.” Yifan says quickly, slapping the inside of Zitao’s thigh, halting any of Zitao’s requests or demands. Yifan kisses the flesh of Zitao’s ass that peeks out from between the boy’s fingers, and as he does so, he works on his own clothes, feeling like he can shed the forsaken title of Priest that he has stamped across his forehead. 

 

It’s exhausting, doing what others think is right all the time. 

 

As he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and sheds it, forgotten on the confessional floor, along with Zitao’s pants, he finds his rosary, completely forgotten about since earlier, tucked into the waistband of his pants. Yifan draws away from Zitao and grins, sinister, pornographic visions coming to mind. Oh—the things he could do with this rosary, but perhaps he’ll save it for another time. 

 

In his left pocket, he realizes as he wrestles free from his pants, is the weight of a small, palm-sized glass jar, and he pauses for a moment and fishes it out.

 

Oh.

 

Oh. 

 

It’s oil. 

 

Specifically, anointing oil. 

 

Yifan licks his lips, and says a thank you to divine intervention, because today, this oil will find a use as lubricant, and he pops the cap open and pours a conservative amount onto his fingers, wanting to have enough for the slide of his cock, later. 

 

Standing to his feet, Yifan presses himself against Zitao’s body, his torso against Zitao’s barely clothed back, for Zitao’s shirt is stuck around his elbows. 

 

Wrapping one hand loosely around Zitao’s throat, Yifan leans against Zitao’s ear, exhaling hotly against the shell of Zitao’s ear, his tongue coming out to press wetly against the skin, and Zitao closes his eyes tightly. “I think I should confess my sins, as well, darling,” 

 

Confusion bows Zitao’s brow, but he has only a second to comprehend, because Yifan wedges his middle finger into Zitao, the oil helping the slide. “Huhhh—ah fuck, Father Wu!” 

 

Zitao is so, so tight, Yifan can feel those hot walls convulse around just his finger, and he grinds his cock, free, hard, and big, against one of Zitao’s ass cheeks. 

 

“Mmm, baby,” Yifan hums, sucking on the lobe of Zitao’s ear, and Zitao’s hands fly desperately, clutching at the hand around his throat, his cheek pressed hard into the privacy screen. 

 

“Relax for me, Zitao. I’ll make you feel so good.” He promises, slowly dragging his finger in and out of Zitao’s tight hole, practically being sucked back in. 

 

Zitao’s brows bow together as though he may cry, but he bites his lip and groans softly. “You already do.” He says back, and Yifan smiles at the sauciness. 

 

Submissive, but not entirely. Yifan likes the flame in Zitao. 

 

He does, manage to coax Zitao into relaxing a little—enough so that he can work his second finger into Zitao’s body, stretching him out, and Zitao chokes, eyes rolling. 

 

“Ah—oh, you… your fingers,” He gasps out, grinding his ass back against Yifan’s hands.

 

Yifan presses them in further, slowly fucking Zitao open with his hand, and tightens his grip around the boy’s neck by a fraction, feeling the chain of his crucifix pendant press into his skin. “You like them?” Yifan asks, thrusting his hand a bit harder into Zitao. He wants to break Zitao. 

 

“Do you know how long,” Yifan begins to speed up the rhythm of his fingers; a taste for what’s to come. “I’ve wanted to do this to you?” 

 

Zitao cries out, stars dancing behind his eyes, and he lets go of Yifan’s wrist in favor of feverishly grasping at the confessional walls, nails searching for purchase. 

 

Yifan works a third finger into Zitao. 

 

“Fah--Fuck—Father,” Zitao whimpers, arching his back against Yifan, wanting Yifan everywhere all at once. 

 

“Ever since I saw you, Zitao, I’ve wanted to fuck you open.” Yifan confesses, pressing his leg between Zitao’s thighs, making Zitao spread his legs wider. Yifan kisses the junction where Zitao’s jaw meets his neck, and lower still, until he finds a sweet spot on the side of Zitao’s neck that makes the younger mewl, and sucks harshly, enough to leave a pretty, purple hickey that will hopefully last for days. 

 

“Father, please,” Zitao begs, though he doesn’t know what he wants—not exactly at least. 

 

Yifan twists his hand up on the next thrust, his fingers jabbing right against Zitao’s untouched prostate, and Zitao almost collapses, Yifan having to keep him up. 

 

“Oh my God!” Zitao cries out, yelping again when Yifan suddenly pulls his fingers out and spanks him hard enough to jolt him closer to the wall, his pathetic cock drooling precum. 

 

Yifan turns Zitao around roughly, and they’re face to face and suddenly it’s too much for Zitao, it’s too much for him to stare into Yifan’s eyes and the strength in his face, to have Yifan hovering over him like this, to—fuck, have their dicks fucking touch like this. 

 

Yifan presses his forehead to Zitao’s, hot breath ghosting over Zitao’s lips, and Zitao leans forward, desperate for a kiss. 

 

“Ah, ah,” Yifan chides, his hands circling around Zitao’s ass, taking handfuls of each cheek and squeezing, nails digging into the flesh. He brings Zitao’s hips forward, grinding their cocks together, and fuck, he’s not immune either, and they both moan at the friction. 

 

“You know better, love.” Yifan grits out, his jaw set in a hard line, and for some reason, Zitao wants to lick it. 

 

He knows what Yifan is talking about, why Yifan is feigning anger.

 

Thou shalt not say the Lord’s name in vain. 

 

“Sorry,” Zitao mumbles half-heartedly, bucking his hips against Yifan’s trying to get more out of him. Just a little more, please. 

 

“Father, please, please,” Zitao, for the first time, grasps at Yifan’s shoulders instead of the walls or his own body. Yifan is so strong, broader than Zitao, firmer beneath Zitao’s fingers, and he tries to bring Yifan closer—but any closer, and they would no longer be able to see each other, and God, how Yifan wants to see Zitao’s face, wants to worship his expressions.

 

Oh, fuck it. 

 

Yifan reaches for the little container of anointing oil, again counting his blessings that he neglected to remove it from his pocket after mass, and generously drizzles it along his cock—it’ll be messy, but it’ll make things so much nicer for the both of them. He doesn’t want to hurt Zitao. Never. 

 

“Come here,” Yifan growls, Zitao salivating at Yifan’s fat, glistening cock—God, how is it going to fit inside of him?—and lets Yifan play with his body, the Priest grabbing Zitao’s thighs and pressing a kiss to Zitao’s nose. 

 

“Around my waist, baby, c’mon,” He encourages, and Zitao complies, thinking only, be good be good be good, and hops up, locking his legs, those thick, gorgeous thighs, around Yifan’s waist, arms loosely around Yifan’s neck. 

 

“Father,” Zitao begs. He’s so, so close to being filled up, split open, fucked by Yifan’s cock, “please, please, pleasepleaseplease,” 

 

Yifan lines his member with Zitao’s entrance, feeling the hole twitch and clench against the head, and he closes his eyes. “Wait.”

 

Zitao whines and tries to bring his hips down, but he has no leverage, and can’t. Yifan is in complete control. 

 

Yifan’s nails dig into where he’s holding Zitao’s ass cheeks, keeping him spread wide, and he opens his eyes, staring into Zitao’s wet ones, breath baited. 

 

“Tell me you want it.” There’s a vulnerability in Yifan’s voice in this split second—he needs to know that Zitao wants this, that he’s not going to end up traumatizing him, sending him into a guilt-filled spiral at the end of this. He has to know that this is what Zitao wants, not what he’s going along with because of the circumstance. 

 

Zitao’s mind is foggy, his breath caught in his throat, and it takes him a moment, so Yifan asks again. 

 

“Tell me, baby. Or I’ll stop right now.” 

 

Zitao shakes his head feverishly, nearly crying at the idea of Yifan leaving him, “No, no, no,” Zitao swallows, biting his lip. “I want you—please, please please father i want you i want you.” 

 

You. 

 

Zitao said I want you. 

 

Yifan caves. 

 

Pulling Zitao’s ass wide, he presses the head of his cock into Zitao’s body, teasing Zitao’s hole, and fuck—fuck. 

 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Yifan groans, sinking in inch by inch, and Zitao’s mouth hangs open, eyes blown out, voice caught somewhere in his throat. 

 

Yifan is so big, even with the oil, it burns, it hurts, he feels like he’s being ripped open, but underneath it all, it feels so good, so full, and Zitao, mind short circuiting, can only nod dumbly, clutching so tightly to Yifan’s back that Yifan knows he’s going to have sore, red welts in the morning. 

 

“Talk to me, darling,” Yifan sings into Zitao’s ear. “Almost there, you can take it, can’t you? My good boy.” He kisses Zitao’s parted lips, pressing his tongue against the younger’s. 

 

Zitao is so warm and tight, and his walls are squeezing and fluttering around Yifan as though they are trying to push him out, and it damn near makes Yifan’s eyes roll, but he persists. 

 

When he draws away from Zitao’s lips, that pretty voice seems to have finally found a way out, and he keens, high and airily, and tosses his head back against the privacy screen, his whole body arching towards Yifan’s like the flexing of a bow under the tension of string. He looks so pretty. 

 

“Big—so big,” Zitao chokes out when Yifan finally bottoms out, and blessedly, he stills, because there are tears in Zitao’s eyes and Yifan cooes softly, lips pursing together, and he lifts one of his hands and pushes Zitao’s messy hair from his eyes, kissing the high of his love’s cheekbone. 

 

“You feel so good,” Yifan groans, rocking forward gently, and Zitao bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, lashes wet. “Does it hurt?” Yifan asks, and Zitao hesitates.

 

He feels full—so full and stretched open, and it really does hurt, but something twisted and less angelic in Zitao really loves the feeling, loves the burn, loves knowing that he’s going to feel Yifan for days after this. 

 

Zitao’s little tongue pokes from between his lips—Yifan is so tempted to lick it—and he tightens his legs around Yifan’s waist. 

 

“I like it,” Zitao admits softly, breathlessly, sounding like he’s on the verge of tears. He still can’t believe they’re doing this here, but the filthiness of it all turns him on even more, and he rolls his hips as best as he can without any leverage, and buries his face in Yifan’s shoulder.

 

“I like it so much, daddy.” Zitao mindlessly mumbles against Yifan’s neck, oblivious to what he has just done. 

 

Yifan nearly blows his load right there, and draws his hips back slowly, dragging his cock out, inch by painful inch, and Zitao’s nails draw red lines down Yifan’s shoulders. 

 

“What did you say?” Yifan growls, only the head of his cock holding Zitao open now, and the boy whines, clenching around Yifan. 

 

Zitao bites Yifan’s shoulder to hide his shiness, though it only eggs Yifan on more. “Please—oh fuck!” Zitao gasps out, tossing his head back against the partition wall with a painful-sounding thunk!, because Yifan slams his hips against Zitao’s forcing every inch of his fat, heavy cock right back in, and it brushes past Zitao’s prostate. 

 

“Do,” Yifan begins, starting to set a slow, hard rhythm into Zitao’s body. “You. Know. What. You. Do. To. Me?” He’s growling the words out, every single syllable a punishing, shaking thrust into Zitao that has the booth rocking, Zitao’s thighs trembling. 

 

Years of abstinence have led to sexual frustration building so high and tight within Yifan that it is almost aggression. Before dedicating his life to the church, he was an intense lover—so much so that his own passion drove him into conservatism, yet the only thing that feels right with Zitao is passion. The only thing Zitao deserves is passion, and all of Yifan’s intensity. 

 

He pulls out of Zitao, repositioning his hips and hands, and then slams back into the beautiful body that’s latched onto him, fucking into Zitao with all of his strength, the head of his cock bruising against Zitao’s prostate, and Zitao screams—up to the high heavens a confession of exactly what they’re doing, and exactly how unrepentant they are. 

 

“This is what you wanted, huh?” Yifan pounds relentlessly into Zitao, his cock dragging along and pressing against Zitao’s prostate in short bursts of power, and all Zitao can really do is hang on for the ride and give in to the stars that keep coming across his eyes and bursting behind his lids. 

 

Yifan’s rhythm is so hard, so fast, and he’s so big that Zitao swears he can feel Yifan punching the base of his stomach, that Zitao can’t even speak, breath sucked out of him every time Yifan draws back and fucks into him, giving him exactly what he wants, exactly what he needs, and the sensations are so overwhelming that Zitao tears up again, and his arms and legs tremble. 

 

Zitao tries to respond, because good boys always answer back, and Zitao has been good his entire life, but Yifan is so, so bad, and Zitao is bad for wanting so much more. His mouth hangs open, tongue resting atop his lower lip (so kissable), and he stares at Yifan with glossy eyes, half-lidded, but heavy with trust and, dare it be said, love. 

 

Every single plunge into Zitao has the both of them tumbling further and further down a spiral of completion, every hard thrust has their skin slapping together, the oils squelching obscenely where they’re connected. Yifan is fucking Zitao wide open, and the babe can’t even gather his breath together to moan properly, the only sounds leaving him being short, shaky little gasps that sometimes waver into airy wails—and they’re so pretty, too. 

 

“Fuck, fuck,” Yifan curses, bowing his head until his lips are flush against Zitao’s collarbone, and he bites feverishly at the skin there, slowing his pace until it’s back at a steady, hard grind, and Zitao’s mouth can finally articulate words, even if his mind isn’t quite there yet. 

 

“Ahh—mmm, fuckfu-fuckmefuckme,” Zitao begs, babbling through sentences and words, because he’s close, God, he’s so close and Yifan is feeding it into him so good—so deep. 

 

“Yeah?” Yifan echoes, gradually increasing his pace again, until Zitao is heaving up the wall with every single fucking thrust. “Look at you take all of me,” Yifan’s voice is a sin itself, Yifan’s voice tears Zitao apart inside, and he closes his eyes and cries out. 

 

“You’re so good, aren’t you? Taking all of me like this—fuck you’re so good,”

 

Zitao nods vigorously, eyes closed, and Yifan realizes that he’s worked a hand between them and is clutching his necklace—the same way he does when he prays. 

 

“Yes, yes, yesyesyes—oh give it to me daddy!” 

 

It goes straight to Yifan’s cock when Zitao says that—the power trip is so delicious, Yifan pulls completely out of Zitao, catching the boy by surprise, and Zitao’s eyes fly open and he shakes his head and tries to pull Yifan closer. 

 

“No, no, no, please,” He begs, wiggling his hips against Yifan’s cock—in such a short time it has turned into his drug. “I can be good please please,” 

 

Yifan grins, and presses a kiss to Zitao’s nose, dropping his legs, though wary in case Zitao can’t stand—and he barely can. 

 

Zitao stumbles on his feet and stares, heart broken, at Yifan, searching for disgust in the other’s eyes, disgust at what they’ve been doing—but instead finds only the darkest of pleasures. 

 

Yifan grabs Zitao’s hair, and Zitao’s breath hitches as Yifan pulls his head back a little—he’s so close again, so close, and Zitao grabs desperately towards Yifan’s cock. 

 

“You want me to give it to you?” Yifan asks, again, searching for consent in some sort of way, and he’s pleased when Zitao nods. 

 

“I can take it, please.” 

 

Yifan growls. “Turn around.” 

 

And Zitao does, like a good boy, he turns around until he’s back in the position that he was in earlier, when Yifan’s tongue was inside of him, and his cheek is pressed against the privacy screen again, his back arched so prettily, offering his ass to Yifan. 

 

Yifan indulges, for a moment, in the pretty picture Zitao makes, counting his blessings that this picture is all for him, before he guides his cock with Zitao’s hole, still glistening with oil and gaping for Yifan’s cock. 

 

“I’ll give it to you.” It’s almost a threat, but Zitao’s mind is wiped blank when Yifan bottoms out with a single, quick thrust, and without giving Zitao any time to process what’s going on, starts to fuck him like he’s trying to fuck something out of him—like he’s angry, and though Zitao knows he isn’t, the thought of it turns him on even more, and he hates that he’s up against the wall like this, only because there’s nothing for him to grab onto, and with Yifan throttling him like this, he fears his legs are going to give out. 

 

Yifan can feel himself unraveling, with every rock into Zitao’s pliant body and whine from those lips, goes his years of devotion to the church—and if this truly is what it means to fall, Yifan only regrets that he didn’t come to Qingdao sooner. 

 

“This is what you’ve been dreaming about, isn’t it?” Yifan’s hand comes up to wrap around Zitao’s throat, and his other one fixes on Zitao’s hip, pressing so hard Zitao is certain he’ll have pretty bruises in the morning. 

 

Zitao’s jaw drops open, words eluding him once more, and his knees knock together as he struggles to stay upright. 

 

Yifan pulls his head back, forcing Zitao’s body into a tight bow against him. “Wanted daddy to fuck,” a particularly rough thrust to Zitao’s prostate has the boy screaming, “you like this? But—ah fuck—you knew how much I wanted this too, didn’t you?” 

 

Zitao can barely register what Yifan is saying to him, can only tell that it sounds so good, feels so good, and oh, he’s so overwhelmed, he doesn’t know what to do. 

 

Yifan tightens his grasp on Zitao’s throat, teasing the younger’s airflow, and pounds hard into him. “Answer. Me.” 

 

“Y-yes, daddy!” Zitao gasps out, words tight, tears falling from his eyes. He doesn’t remember the question. Doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t know anything, except that he’s so close, it hurts—fuck it hurts. 

 

Yifan relaxes his hold on Zitao’s throat, and licks the shell of his ear. “Good boy.” 

 

Zitao groans at this, his hands forming fists against the confessional wall. 

 

“You want to cum, don’t you?” 

 

Zitao understands this, for his whining increases, and he’s loud—really loud, Yifan realizes, and while they’re in too deep to care much for somebody overhearing, and Yifan is almost one-hundred percent sure that they’re completely alone in the church, anyways, he has an inkling that Zitao is only going to get louder when fucked through his orgasm. 

 

And then he remembers—oh, he remembers his filthy, debauched little fantasy from earlier, and glances around the confession booth, until he spots on the seat, his rosary. 

 

Thinking little, if anything at all, Yifan reaches the arms-length to grab the beaded holy symbol, and with a wicked, twisted sort of pleasure, balls up the beads, and presses them to Zitao’s lips. 

 

It surprises Zitao—and he glances back at Yifan, but the awe and arousal in Yifan’s gaze is enough to get him to do anything, and obediently, he lets Yifan push the rosary into his mouth, the cross dangling atop his chin, and Yifan begins again with his rough pace, trying to push Zitao over the edge. 

 

With the beads in his mouth, Zitao is quieter, but only by a fraction—he still moans and cries out, even though it’s a bit muffled, and Yifan removes the hand from Zitao’s hip and instead tangles it in Zitao’s hair, pulling Zitao closer against him, fucking into him now, not only with the intention of bringing Zitao to orgasm, but himself as well. 

 

“Can you cum just like this for me?” Yifan asks, feeling Zitao’s legs wobble—he’s close. So cute. 

 

Zitao nods as best as he can with Yifan’s hand in his hair. “Mm’can.” He mumbles over the beads. “Pl-please daddy,” It’s distorted, but Yifan still catches what Zitao says, what Zitao is begging for, and he can’t help the moan that falls from his lips. 

 

“Fuck, baby,” Yifan grinds his hips harder against Zitao, unsure anymore of where Zitao ends and he begins, and in the frantic falter of his rhythm, he jabs ruthlessly at Zitao’s prostate, and Zitao’s entire body starts to tremble. 

 

“There, there, there, theretherefuckdaddyfuckright—there!” Zitao gasps out, the rosary falling unceremoniously from his mouth, clattering to the floor, and Zitao’s body seizes beautifully, locked in an arch, knees trembling, and Yifan watches, fucking him through, awed completely as Zitao’s eyes roll into the back of his head before fluttering shut, his mouth dropped wide in a silent scream—and he cums, locking around Yifan like a vise, cock completely untouched and spilling Zitao’s seed all over the confessional wall—and oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck—

 

“So good, so perfect,” Yifan groans, snapping his hips furiously against Zitao’s erratically, purely chasing his own orgasm and fucking Zitao through his, and when Zitao comes back to him, just a moment after his earth-shattering orgasm, he sobs from the oversensitivity. 

 

“Too much,” Zitao’s fists hit lightly against the wall, every nerve buzzing, and he cries, eyes wet and cloudy, because Yifan is still going, and it’s too much, he just came, he’s so messy but Yifan is still fucking him through, completely using his body. 

 

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming—fuck, Zitao I’m cumming,” Yifan announces suddenly, both of his arms wrapping around Zitao’s waist, hugging the boy close to him as he ruts into Zitao’s ass, and, in lieu of moaning or shouting out, Yifan sinks his teeth into Zitao’s shoulder, groaning into the skin as he spills his hot cum into Zitao’s wrecked body, and Zitao’s legs completely give out—because Yifan has fucked him into another orgasm, his cock, half-hard, drooling cum weakly onto the floor, and all Zitao can offer is a pathetic whine, and his hands shake, grabbing at Yifan’s arms, sobbing. 

 

Spent, and almost completely drained of energy (Lord knows how Zitao must feel), Yifan sinks to his knees, bringing Zitao down with him, and together, they lean against the opposite wall of the confessional, Yifan’s cock slipping out of Zitao’s body, and Zitao moans weakly at the loss, trembling and jerking involuntarily at the force of his orgasms. 

 

Yifan holds him between his legs, letting Zitao’s back fall heavily against his chest, and, panting, kisses the hair the angel in his arms. 

 

“I’ve got you, baby,” Yifan encourages, pulling one arm away from Zitao’s chest and brushing back his sweaty bangs. “So good—so good.” 

 

They sit, in the quiet seclusion of the confessional, bathing in the afterglow of their sex, which should feel like stewing in the boiling water of the River Styx, yet the atmosphere only feels swollen with love and care, Yifan whispering praise to Zitao until he’s no longer shaking. 

 

“Come back to me,” Yifan requests softly. “Talk to me, love.” There’s a hesitance in Yifan’s voice now that the heat of the moment has faded. Zitao may react poorly to what they’ve just done—may resent him, and, God forbid, resent himself. Yifan, at the very least, wants Zitao to know that, while perhaps the location of their love is a bit inappropriate, there is nothing wrong with what they have just done—nothing wrong with the way that they (hopefully they, though Yifan knows this may be a one-sided pull of love) care for each other. 

 

He’s quite surprised, however, when Zitao’s head lulls back on his shoulder, and with very sleepy, though very sated and satisfied eyes, Zitao offers Yifan one of his world-stopping, shy little smiles. 

 

“That was fun.” He declares. 

 

Yifan’s heart soars, and he smiles, pressing his nose into Zitao’s hair. 

 

“You little minx,” Yifan exhales breathlessly, speaking almost to himself, and he’s positive that Zitao, who is half-asleep already, hadn’t heard him. “Come on, baby,” Yifan begins to sit up and gather their clothes as best as he can without letting Zitao go. “Let me take care of you.” 

 

Zitao, eyes closed, smiles. “Mmkay. ‘M gonna stay with you tonight.” He declares, words slurred with sleep, and Yifan pauses for a moment, and looks at his new overnight companion. 

 

“You are?” He asks, amusement laced in his tone with the quirk of his brow. 

 

Zitao nods, eyes still shut. “Take care of me.” 

 

Yifan laughs, a bit of a scoff, though sweet and kind, his heart swollen with love—and so soon—for the young doll of a man in his arms. 

 

“Forever, darling.” 

 

 

Yes, Yifan thinks, hours later, when he’s in his modest apartment, Zitao wrapped up in his arms, clinging all the same. 

 

God definitely brought him to Qingdao for a reason.

**Author's Note:**

> guess what there's a sequel lol


End file.
